


Ruins and Reconstruction

by Faiktra



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Wolffe goes to a dark 'wish he had died worried he still might' kinda place, boogie woogie woogie!, but! it's okay cause Plo's his dad!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 17:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21165434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faiktra/pseuds/Faiktra
Summary: Wolffe's been rescued from Ventress' control and he's healing...kindaGood thing his dad's there to support him while he crumbles





	Ruins and Reconstruction

**Author's Note:**

> This was Originally(tm) only going to be for the Gay Fools Discord but I liked it so much that it's getting posted here too so everyone may suffer! >:3

He can’t stop his hands from shaking. He’s never had shaky hands before, prides himself on being a steady shot even, but right now his stupid kriffing hands won’t stop trembling. Like some shiny after their first real battle. Or a cadet after one of those bad dreams they all seemed to get as soon as they pick up a blaster.

Wolffe lets out a breath (and kriffing great that’s shaky too just kriffing stellar) and flexes his fingers. He just needs them to hold still long enough to get the bandages off his face. Just so he can prove that he’s not broken. Or at least look like it. If he doesn’t look broken then the long-necks won’t pester him, won’t look any deeper than his surface level damage. And if they don’t dig into him, with their scalpels and their brainwave probes and their other tools that he had never stuck around in the med bay long enough to find out the names of (med bays generally meant one thing for clones and it was a thing they learnt very young) then they won’t decommission him and then everything will be fine. It’ll be fine cause he’s fine.

He’s fine. He’s _Fine_.

He _would_ be kriffing fine if his kriffing hands would stop kriffing shaking. Kriff.

"Son, stop."

Plo’s deep, filtered voice cuts thru some of his panic but he can’t take his eyes--his eye now, he guesses kriff-- off his hands. Useless, broken, stupid hands.

Useless, broken, stupid him.

The whole time he has been imprisoned by Ventress, that Sith stain of a person, he hoped he never had to see her again, he had pleaded with just about every entity that he knew of. ‘Please…’ he’d think, lying on the ground in his pitch-black cell, unable to feel anything but the flaky blood dried to his cheek and the pounding pain just below his eyebrow and the even worse pounding of his heart. (It had been dark enough that he hadn’t realized till Boost and Sinker pulled him out that he was blind in one eye.) ‘Please, the Force, the stars, Makers, Ancients, _any_body, please, I don’t want to die here.’ He should have known there would be a price, a trick, to that deal he’d made. Wolffe should have died there.

It was better than dying here.

"Son." A rough hand covers his own, holding them still against the thin med bay blanket. "Wolffe...whatever you’re thinking, please… stop. I can feel you spiraling."

"I’m fine." He was, he Had to be. He couldn’t die here, the Wolfpack needed him. Boost and Sinker shouldn’t have to lose any more siblings just because he can’t hold himself together. His traitorous fingers spasm against the bed.

"You’re not." Decommissioned decommissioned, his own general was going to recommend him for deco-- "And that’s alright. Your vode and I… we can take care of you until you are."

Wolffe jerks his hands out from his da--his generals and finally brings his gaze up. People often find it difficult to look Plo in the eyes, or in the goggles, and usually Wolffe isn’t one of them but now… "You--you?? You what?"

It’s hard to read Plo’s expressions under the goggles and the mask, which is maybe why people do struggle with looking at him straight on. But Wolffe considers himself an expert at this point. Another thing he prides himself on. He makes himself hold Plo’s gaze, sinking into the dark lenses, trying not to flinch at the reflection of himself that he sees. Kriff, right now, Plo can only be described as...soft. An unusual descriptor for a Kel Dor but this description is only cemented in his mind when Plo brings up a hand to smooth over his unbandaged cheek. He wishes he had had a chance to shave.

"I cannot promise your safety in most things, Commander, but here...with this...I assure you no harm will befall you. You are very dear to me I don’t mind waiting for your recovery." Plo glances fondly down to where Boost and Sinker have fallen asleep curled across Wolffe’s bed. “And I get the impression that your siblings would agree.” Wolffe snorts, reaching down to tuck the spare blanket they had forcibly commandeered from a flustered medical droid more tightly around Boost’s shoulders. That was probably true. They had been dubbed a ‘pack’ for a reason, as much as Cody jokingly argued it was an insult.

He hates the tears that gather in his exposed eye so he leans over to hide them against Plo’s chest. This war kept shrinking his family, the one he had selected so carefully back on Kamino, and at this point he had all but given up on rebuilding it. But he had forgotten, that sometimes, your family grows out of your control. He didn’t choose Plo, probably wouldn’t have picked a quiet, alien Jedi to be part of his family, but that didn’t mean the general hadn’t snatched up the opportunity -- the wide, gaping opening -- left after _Triumphant’s_ explosion.

Well...he had (they all had) always wanted a dad. 

Wolffe’s tears are soaking through Plo’s robes, so he starts to move away, sniffling rather embarrassingly, only to have a four-fingered hand press gently against the base of his skull. Carefully guarded talons card through his overly-long hair, smoothing a few escaped curls behind his ears. “Rest, son. I will watch over you all while you sleep.”

His eye flutters closed and he fights for a moment to reopen it, just in case, before letting Plo support all of his weight instead. His hand clenches in Plo’s robes, bunching the fabric against his palm. They’re surprisingly soft, for all that the Jedi supposedly abhor material comforts. And it’s nice, having Plo’s steady breathing filling his senses: the rise and fall of his chest under Wolffe’s hand, the soft clicking of the anitox respirator in his ears, the faint scent of dorin gas tickling his nose around the overpowering smell of sterilized medical equipment.

So, he sleeps and just this once...he trusts.

**Author's Note:**

> im @cisphobicparentalunit on tumblr if u wanna come say hewwo


End file.
